


The Unintentional Reevaluation of Natasha Stark

by kdm103020



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Genderswap, Getting Together, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Pining Steve Rogers, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 01:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14884997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kdm103020/pseuds/kdm103020
Summary: Howard's daughter drives her nuts.In which Natasha Antonia Stark morphs from Steph's personal nightmare into...well, something else.  She's not quite sure about that yet.





	The Unintentional Reevaluation of Natasha Stark

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the Cap/Iron Man 2018 Reverse Big Bang. Special thanks to [jayjayverse](https://jayjayverse.tumblr.com) for their absolutely spectacular artwork. You should definitely go and check out all of their stuff!
> 
> Some points of clarification -- this is, as the tags indicate, a genderswapped fic, and both Steve (Steph) and Tony (Tasha) have always been women. I envision this universe as an unholy mashup of the MCU, 3490, and 616; I've pulled characteristics I enjoy from each and gone wild, which is pretty much my rule of thumb for playing in this sandbox. Hope you enjoy!

Howard’s daughter drives her nuts.

She initially thinks it’s great that there’s going to be not two, but _three_ , women on this task force, because as much as she’d loved the Commandos, it was sometimes hard not to feel like the odd-woman out.  She and Nat get along like a house on fire, straight from the get-go.  The redheaded woman is, Steph senses, a lot of different things, but she’s a professional and Steph can respect that.  The woman exudes confidence and competency, which are just the sort of qualities that she wants in the person standing next to her. 

Natasha is an entirely different story. 

It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly about Natasha Antonia Stark that sends her up the wall.  Maybe it’s the way that woman has a quip for every single interaction, no matter the severity of the situation.  It could be her blatant disregard for the very real danger they’re all in or her willingness to go toe to toe with Steph, even when the top of her head barely reaches Steph’s chin.  All Steph knows is that dozens of trifling little things come together in one eternally vexing woman whom, try as she might, Steph just can’t seem to get a handle on.  What kind of person, she wonders, designs a weaponized flight suit for private use, fights without backup, and answers to no authority but her own whim?  And what on earth is she doing on this team?

Still, she must admit, when but comes to shove, Stark comes through.  She flies that nuke into space without a second’s hesitation, a decision that Steph’s all-too-intimately familiar with.  It hurts, Steph thinks, being on the other side of that interaction, being the one left on the ground not knowing if your team member’s going to make it back. 

But, miracle of miracles, Natasha does make it back.  One moment she’s falling out of space, limp and unresponsive, and the next she’s lying in the middle of the street joking about schwarma like she didn’t just save the lives of several million people.  Steph has no idea what schwarma is — turns out, it’s pretty good — but she figures Stark’s earned it, no matter how cocky she might be.  As the six of them cluster around a table amidst rubble and debris, Steph subtly tries to take stock of the woman she’s known less than forty-eight hours, yet has somehow ended up fighting alongside. 

Stark catches her staring.  Her eyes testify to her bone-deep exhaustion and that cut above her eyebrow probably needs stitches.  Still, Stark raises her sandwich, nods her head, and salutes with her surprisingly-savory victory meal, managing to look pull off smug and self-satisfied despite the dirt. 

Like Steph said:  infuriating.   

 

* * *

 

Stark is not humble in victory.  At all. 

Less than 24 hours after the Chitauri attack, she’s on every major news network giving anyone who’ll listen a play-by-play of events.  She’s loud and she’s abrasive and she’s the very definition of _in your face,_ and, _Christ_ , is she that desperate for attention?

It seems that way, at least at first.  Natasha releases the video feed from her HUD and walks every late night talk show host through the attack, moment-by-moment.  She makes a million different pop cultural references that Steph can’t grasp fully but assumes are irreverent nonetheless.  She flirts and with the same breath turns around and explains how luck the city was to have Dr. Banner, since even she wasn’t capable of truly understanding the Tesseract’s gamma signature (which Steph _knows_ isn’t true, having heard Bruce and Tasha collaborate firsthand).  She gushes about how much of an honor it was to fight alongside her childhood hero, particularly when said hero lived up to the hype (no comment).  She smirks and she giggles and she tosses her hair and it’s every stereotypical feminine ploy that Steph’s fought against her whole life. 

But it works.  The public loves her, loves Iron Woman and, by extension, the Avengers.  Hawkeye is lauded for his efforts in assisting the city, the world collectively agrees to overlook Hulk’s history in Harlem, and no one seems inclined to question the legitimacy of a Russian national working for an American government agency.  The city slowly starts to piece itself back together.  There are magazine covers and interviews and an endless round of public appearances, and before long the politicians are the ones contacting _them_ about charity auctions and rebuilding projects, because wouldn’t it just be fabulous if the Avengers came to this ribbon-cutting ceremony, which is so conveniently taking place during an election year? 

It’s not until later that Steph realizes just how much Stark’s media circus has shaped public record.  Even with the wealth of news crews in New York City and a seemingly-endless array of cell phone cameras, there’s not that much direct footage of the actual fighting.  They'd all moved around too quickly, and most of the people who got close to the action had more pressing concerns than filming events for posterity.  Not that Steph really understands the need to document every single moment of life, but the world seems to lap up Natasha’s exuberance.  And her footage.

The government, though, is less than enthusiastic about the press tour, particularly when Stark’s interviews start so quickly after everything that went down.  A lot of men in suits shout very loudly that Natasha had no right to be airing government secrets before events had been declassified, but Natasha primly informed them that not only is she a volunteer, but she is specifically _not recommended for government work_ (and, oh, there’s a story there).  Ergo, she’d claimed, the government could not curtail the actions of a private citizen, nor could they lay claim to the Iron Woman technology, which was private intellectual property.  If she chooses to distribute privately owned footage of an event that happened in a very public venue in the interest of transparency, well that was her business now, wasn't it?  She also manages to insinuate, mid-rant, that she’d been very nice about not disclosing the origins of the missile strike, because the public might be interested to know that a subset of the United Nations had fired on New York City. 

If the legalese had infuriated the World Security Council, the implicit blackmail is enough to shut them up.  Fury, though, Fury seems less enraged than his name might imply.  If Steph didn’t know any better, she’d say he looks…proud?  At the very least he’d seems less angry than usual, which can only work out in the team’s favor. 

Steph only wishes someone would let her in on the secret. 

 

* * *

 

Living with Natasha is a whole new level of frustrating. 

It would be easier, it would be _so much easier_ if she could just hate the woman, because then she could just stop thinking about her, could put her out of her mind once and for all, aside from Avengers-related business.  But each and every time she thinks Tasha’s crossed some sort of line in the sand, something that would allow Steph to mentally box up her personality and file her away once and for all, she does something considerate and the thought process goes back to square one.  It’s intensely frustrating. 

There’s no doubting the woman’s brave.  And smart.  And beautiful.  And that she can simultaneously run a company, maintain her place and the forefront of the technological world, and pilot a mechanized suit of armor.  That still doesn’t excuse the fact that Tasha is just so _Tasha._

It’s fine, though.  Steph’s dealing with it.  Coming to grips with the woman’s existence is just harder when they’re sharing a living space. 

To be fair, it was never supposed to be a permanent thing.  SHIELD headquarters had been pretty banged up after the Chitauri, but the Stark Mansion had escaped miraculously unscathed.  It just made sense for the Avengers to bunk up with Natasha, considering the lack of available accommodations throughout the city.  The hotels were packed with people whose homes had been destroyed, and it wouldn’t be fair for them to take up space that could go to another person.  Besides, as Tasha repeatedly assured everyone, she has the room. 

Except ‘everyone’ didn’t stay put for long.  After the initial clean up and the publicity stunts, life settles down to this century’s approximation of normal, or at least what Steph assumes is normal.  Clint and Nat go off to do their Very Secret Things for SHIELD, Thor goes to visit a lady friend in New Mexico, and Bruce is…somewhere intentionally off the grid.  That pretty much leaves just her and Natasha holed up in an obscenely large house trying to peacefully coexist.  Right. 

It’s Natasha’s house, and Steph is a guest.  She reminds herself of this whenever Natasha makes her feel like pulling out her hair, which is an all-too-frequent occurrence.  The woman leaves coffee cups all over the place, can’t keep shoes on for more than thirty minutes at a time, and has never heard the word ‘schedule’ in her life, much less thought of following one.  If she had, Pepper would be a lot less stressed out and Natasha would actually _plan out her meals_ instead of swiping one of Steph’s protein bars on the way to her next meeting.  (She’s started buying those bars in bulk, because Tasha’s tiny enough as it is without missing meals.  And it’s her job to see to her teammates’ wellbeing.)  And Tasha has every right to walk around her own home wearing whatever she wants, because it is not Steph’s place to judge.  (Although she’s pretty sure cotton tanks were thicker in her day.  With higher necklines.)  Tasha is a grown woman and so is Steph.  They can get along like reasonable adults.  Colleagues.  Friendly acquaintances and coincidental roommates.  It’s fine. 

Except for the times when it’s not.  Because living with the woman means that Steph is privy to a lot of things that she would be a lot better off not knowing, thank you very much.  Like how despite her tiny size, Tasha has a surprisingly high tolerance for alcohol.  Or that she survives on a minimal amount of sleep.  Or that apparently she’s comfortable with dating both men and women because she’s _flexible._

Ignorance truly is bliss, at least on certain occasions, and Tasha is bound and determined to deny her that ignorance. 

She is fully aware that Tasha is a grown woman and is perfectly capable of looking after herself.  (The woman in question has informed her of this, multiple times.)  Still, the woman attends a frankly disturbing number of social functions, most of the time not stumbling in through the front door until the wee hours of the morning.  And Steph has exceptional hearing, so it just makes sense for her to wait until Natasha’s finished…socializing to turn in for the night. 

She’s not exactly sure what the event-of-the-week is this time, but Natasha comes barging in sometime after three.  Her hair’s more disheveled than it was when she left earlier, and she looks exhausted, but she still takes the time to poke her head into the library where Steph has (allegedly) been reading. 

“You know,” she drawls, “you don’t exactly have to wait up.  I haven’t had a curfew in decades, and I’m pretty sure even when I did have one, I didn’t pay attention to it.”

Steph deliberately raises her book.  “I’m reading,” she notes primly. 

“I see.  Might want to stick a bookmark in it, Cap.  We need you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed just in case of any early morning catastrophes.”

And isn’t that just rich, considering the state Tasha’s in.  Steph deliberately looks the other woman up and down.  “And you get a pass?”

“Someone has to bring home the big bucks,” Tasha shoots back, crouching down to pull off a pair of painful looking stilettos.  “You know,” she remarks, gesturing with a shoe, “you’re more than welcome to tag along to any of these shindigs if you ever want to reprise your role as a chorus girl.”

“No thanks.”  Steph would rather eat broken glass than willfully put herself through that circus again. 

Tasha, however, seems offended by her answer.  Her lips do that pursing thing that Steph absolutely hates, and one of her eyebrows lifts mockingly.  Steph feels obliged to explain. 

“I just don’t see the point in all of this.”  She barely resists gesturing towards Tasha, but the other woman seems to get the unspoken point. 

“Of course you don’t,” she answers disdainfully. 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re…” Tasha pauses, struggling for the word, before finally shaking a stiletto in her direction.  “You.”

That explains nothing.  “And?”

“Tasha shrugs.  “You’re Captain America.  You’re brave and patriotic and a genuine hero.  The public loves you.”

“That’s not—”

“At least,” Tasha continues as if she hadn’t interrupted, “they love you until you mess something up.  Or lose a fight.  Or say something controversial.  Public opinion can turn on a dime, and then where does that leave us?  This,” she gestures up and down her elaborate and no doubt expensive getup.  “This is all of the legwork that goes on behind the scenes that allows us to keep doing what we do, because at the end of the day we need funding and the government’s approval, or at least their grudging toleration.  Hence, benefit galas with influential people in attendance.”

Steph wants to object — she really, really does — but deep in her gut she knows there’s truth in what Tasha’s saying.  For each hour the spend fighting, she knows there are a hundred more hours that people spend in boardrooms arguing about what they’ve done, questioning their decisions, and talking really loudly about the way _they_ would have handled things.  Funny how those people never seem to show up when the punches are flying. 

Still, Steph also knows that Tasha ends up at a lot of those meetings.  Not only is she the one out there providing aerial support, but afterward she’s in the labs upgrading their tech and in committee meetings defending the Avengers’ decisions with her characteristic biting sarcasm.  It makes sense that all of these social events might be an extension of that. 

That doesn’t mean that Steph has to like them. 

“And the date?” she questions, trying to get back to the conversation at hand. 

Tasha looks appropriately stumped by the turn in the conversation.  She blinks.  “What about her?”

And that, that’s rich, because Steph has many thoughts about _her_.  She doesn’t know _her_ name, but she really doesn’t know how Tasha could be so dismissive about the statuesque blonde who accompanied her to…whatever event it was they went to.  Because Tasha is _flexible_. 

Steph says none of this out loud.  Instead, she proceeds in an extremely neutral voice.  “You can’t have been paying much attention to your date if you’re off…socializing with government officials.”

Tasha answers with a short, barking laugh.  “Cap, Yvette’s a model.  We’re less dating than engaging in a mutually beneficial business arrangement.  I get arm candy, she gets exposure, no one expects us to go home with them at the end of the night.  Everybody wins.”

Something inside her that she’s not quite ready to identify unclenches at Tasha’s admission, which makes absolutely no sense.  She keeps her tone neutral as she answers. 

“That seems very clinical.”

“Welcome to my world, sweetheart.  Feel free to join in any time.”

Steph feels herself recoil at the suggestion.  “I couldn’t do that,” she answers, her response automatic. 

“Of course not.  Wouldn’t want to compromise your upright moral principles and all.”  Tasha’s answer is cold, and she turns to leave, but Steph can’t let her go on that note. 

“No, it’s just…um…I’m not great at being diplomatic.  Or schmoozing.”  And isn’t that the understatement of the century?  She _loathes_ small talk; she can never quite manage to pull it off, and it always strikes her as incredibly insincere.  Not to mention her complete and utter lack of interest in the people she’s generally supposed to be talking into things, but that’s an entirely different story. 

Tasha turns.  “Well, practice makes perfect.”

“It’s not necessarily something that I want to practice.”

Tasha sighs again, although now she just looks disappointed.  “Whatever floats your boat, Cap.  Offer stands, though.  You can serve as my plus one anytime.”

“I’m not exactly arm candy,” Steph answers, remembering Tasha’s earlier terminology and _Yvette._

Tasha pauses one more time, her eyes roving up and down Steph’s seated figure.  “You sure?”

And how exactly is she supposed to answer that?  She can feel her cheeks heating up, and dammit, the serum’s supposed to regulate her systems, not throw her body into havoc when some socialite CEO inventor gets cheeky. 

And Tasha’s definitely noticed her flushing, damn her Irish skin.  She shoots off one final smirk, shouting a goodbye over her shoulder.  “Goodnight, Steph!”

Steph gives herself a moment, closes her book, and heads toward her room.  Once she knows the other woman’s out of hearing range, she answers back. 

“Goodnight, Natasha.”

 

* * *

 

Fighting with Tasha is kind of great. 

Not the verbal fighting, that is.  Those spats leave her angry and wondering if the fragment of the serum that lets Bruce hulk out made has somehow been lying dormant in her bloodstream all this time.  (To be fair, those have tapered off lately.)  Combat, though, combat is where they shine.  Whenever someone points them at an enemy and says _go,_ they stumble into some sort of effortless synergy that’s hard to replicate elsewhere. 

Tasha still shoots off at the mouth mid-fight, but either Steph’s losing her mind or the dialogue has grown on her.  More importantly, Tasha’s always where she needs to be when the situation calls for it, delivering a well-timed repulsor blast to the latest evil murder bot of the week, more often than not, just as it’s about to take a shot at Steph.  It’s nice to have backup, particularly when the circumstances are less world-threatening and more annoying. 

Annoying is probably the best definition of their most recent encounter with the Doombots.  She’s not exactly sure what the story is — Tasha seems to have some sort of complicated history with their creator — but they’re relatively easily dispatched of, even with just the two of them responding to the call to assemble.  It’s a straightforward half-hour of fighting with minimal property damage, which makes it a good day in Steph’s book.  Tasha, though, has an alternative way of framing things. 

“So that was fun.”

“You have an odd definition of fun,” she answers back, wiping at a drop of sweat inching its way down her forehead under the cowl. 

“Oh come on,” Tasha retorts.  “You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy letting loose on some Doombots.  This has gotta be some sort of stress relief for you.  You don’t exactly strike me as the yoga type.”

Steph smiles against her will.  “Not exactly, no.”  Although Tasha is.  At least, she wears enough yoga pants around the Mansion to suggest the hobby.  Not that Steph’s thought about it a lot. 

Tasha’s voice cuts through her inconveniently-timed mental rambles.  “You want a ride?  Somehow I doubt that motorcycle is fully operational.”  Tasha moves an armored finger towards the place that Steph had parked her bike and…yeah, that thing’s not starting anytime soon.

She turns back to her partner.  “Your point?”

“Hop on.”

“Hop on _what?_ ” Steph demands, her voice rising.  

Tasha tilts her head, somehow managing to convey sass while encased in armor.  “Just…come here.” 

Steph chalks it up to surprise that she doesn’t move out of the way in time.  Before she has enough composure to do anything, Tasha’s wrapped one armor-clad arm around her waist and pulled her in close. 

“Stand on top of my boot,” she directs, voice still slightly distorted by the suit’s modulator.   As Steph moves, Tasha pulls her in close and then they’re airborne. 

It’s over before Steph really has a chance to appreciate the experience.  New York’s really not that big of a city and the suit is fast, so the trip doesn’t last all that long.  Still, that night when she’s thinking back through events of the day, she can still feel a lingering arm around her waist and the surprisingly warm press of metal against her cheek. 

 

* * *

 

Tasha somehow manages to be even louder when she’s not in the room. 

As ~~annoying~~ ~~frustrating~~ distracting as the woman can be in person, Steph finds that her absence is just as problematic.  After two months of living with her, the mansion seems unnervingly empty when Tasha’s not filling it with her overly-loud comings and goings.  How one tiny woman manages to take up so much space is something Steph will never quite understand.  Still, the silence she leaves behind is deafening.

It’s a business trip, because somehow Ireland offers some stellar tax breaks that require Tasha to sign some very official documents in person.  It should only take the weekend, but it’s more time than Steph has had to herself in a really long time.  New York is also being unnaturally cooperative for once, which is really just…inconvenient.  The criminals really need to refine their timetables.

She’s mindlessly flipping through channels when her phone buzzes.

_T:  You’re Irish, right?_

She has absolutely no idea where Tasha is going with this.  Texting has always been a somewhat off-putting experience, a strange combination between a phone call and letter writing.  She’s not really used to the luxury of either, so having an instant means of communication so readily at her fingertips is still somewhat bizarre.  Moreover, Tasha’s texts seem to follow no logical rhyme or reason.  Sometimes she’ll send a link to something she thinks Steph would find interesting, whereas other times she’ll just forward emoticons and a string of random letters.  It’s mildly infuriating.  The woman’s hard enough to read when Steph can see her face.  Give her a technological shield, and it cuts off half of Steph’s evaluative criteria.  Still, this is the first contact she’s had with Tasha in almost forty-eight hours, so she’ll take what she can get. 

She goes with the most conservative answer possible. 

_S:  My parents were._

_T:  So is that four-leaf clover thing BS?  Because if not, I just got lucky!!!_

A second later, a picture of Tasha — a selfie, as she’s been repeatedly told — pops in.  True to her word, the other woman’s holding a four-leaf clover up to her face while she smiles teasingly at the camera.  Steph allows herself a smile and composes her answer. 

_S:  Congratulations.  Save some of that luck for the next time something attacks the Empire State Building._

She waits a moment before sending off another text. 

_S:  How’s Ireland?_

_T:  Green.  Good weather.  Great beer._

_S:  Don’t go too crazy._

_T:  No promises!_

And this is one of those situations in which she really needs to see Tasha’s face, because she _thinks_ she’s joking, but she’s just not sure.  She debates with herself for a moment, but she lets herself send off another text. 

_S:  You’re still coming back on Tuesday, right?_

_T:  Yup._

_T:  Although, fair warning, if for any reason I bump into Katie McGrath, I’m extending my trip at least a couple of days, because DAMN._

A string of emojis that she has absolutely no idea of how to interpret follows the explicative.  She can’t really make out the meaning and she has no idea who Katie McGrath is, but the context clues are fairly self-explanatory.  What she doesn’t know is how to respond. 

Tasha saves her the trouble when another text pops in.

_T:  Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable._

She _is_ uncomfortable, but that’s hardly Tasha’s fault.  And it’s certainly not for the reason Tasha thinks. 

_S:  If you think the twenty-first century invented lesbians, you’ve clearly never spent any time around any WAC girls._

_T:  First of all, I’m bisexual._

_T:  But you make a valid point._

There’s never going to be a better opening.  Her fingers hesitate over the keyboard for a few seconds, but she eventually sends the text.

_S:  We’ve always been here._

Of all the times for Tasha to go silent, this is not it.  She can see the three moving dots that mean Tasha’s typing, but…nothing. 

She’s mentally contemplating the merits of chucking her phone against the wall when a new message finally pops in. 

_T:  Is that a typo, or did you just come out via text?_

It’s an out, and it would be so, so easy to take it.  She doesn’t. 

_S:  I meant what I wrote._

Three little dots have never been so damning. 

_T:  Thank you for telling me._

A vague statement if there ever was one.   She’s mentally composing a reply when a slew of text come in, as if Tasha’s making up for the silence with her typical verbosity. 

_T:  Are you okay?_

_T:  Like, congrats_

_T:  100% supportive btw_

_T:  But do you want to talk or something?_

She types out an answer before Tasha can text-vomit any further.

_S:  I’m okay._

_S:  It’s something I’ve always known.  I just didn’t feel comfortable telling anyone before now._

_S:  This century seems nicer about things._

_T:  Yeah._

And they’re back to vagueness.  Fantastic. 

_T:  Just to be clear, I’ve called dibs on Katie.  You don’t just get to waltz in and reset the curve._

_S:  I’m not really to meet anyone else right now.  I kind of have a lot going on at the moment._

_T:  Valid._

_T:  In all seriousness, I’m here if you ever want to talk._

That’s comforting.  And it’s not as if she expected Tasha to be anything less than understanding given her own…flexibility.  The problem is, Steph’s beginning to suspect she might want to do more than ‘talk’ with Tasha. 

But that’s not a discussion they should have over text. 

_S:  Thank you._

_S:  Don’t you have a meeting tomorrow morning?_

_T:  There’s always a meeting.  I’ll get through it with a combination of coffee, confidence, and charisma.  I call it the MIT Method.  Patent pending._

It’s an indication of how much Tasha’s grown on her that she finds this funny and not obnoxious.  More importantly, experience has taught her about Tasha’s coping methods.  The humor’s going a long way to dispel the digital tension, so she allows herself to play along.

_S:  Go to sleep!_

_T:  Spoilsport!_

_T:  Night, Steph._

_S:  Goodnight, Tasha._

She waits a moment before adding one more line.

_S:  See you when you get home._

And if she spends a bit longer than she should staring at Tasha’s clover selfie, that’s nobody’s business but her own. 

 

* * *

 

They stumble into an odd equilibrium once Tasha gets back.  Steph never brings up their text conversation and Tasha doesn’t either, but it’s nestled between them all the same, the shared confidence fostering an intimacy.  It’s not perfect, and they still gripe at each other on occasion, but it’s something. 

Life goes on.  Clint and Nat come back from wherever they’ve been, recuperate for a couple of weeks, and then head back out.  Steph finds a community center that hosts an art therapy class on the weekend.  Tasha still spends far too much time at work, but occasionally she comes back to the mansion in time for dinner if Steph nags her often enough.  Things are good, or at least far better than she expected things to be. 

It all falls apart one day in October.

The ultimate irony is, there’s nothing remotely interesting about the situation.  It’s an apartment fire; a cold front prompts a slew of heater-usage and one loose coil sets a high-rise ablaze.  When she sees the smoke rising, she speeds towards the plume, trusting that someone on the street will call 911 and dispatch the proper authorities.  The elevator shafts won’t be safe, so she heads towards the stairwell, cautiously elbowing through the sea of people heading the other way.  The air gets thicker as she climbs, and she can hear the building creaking at the seams.  If she’s going to do something’s she needs to do it fast.

She does make a difference.  Falling debris has trapped some people on the seventy-sixth floor, and she’s able to clear some rubble that the fireman definitely wouldn’t have been able to move in time.  She’s making one final sweep when the ceiling caves in, effectively cutting off her access to all exits. 

She’s died once — or as good as —  and she has absolutely no intention of repeating the experience.  The serum’s great, but she doubts that it can reconstitute ashes, so that means she going to have to jump.  She’s not really looking forward to the experience, but she’ll make it out okay.  Probably.  At any rate, it’s her best option. 

A well-placed shield blow shatters the exterior window.  She steps back, takes a running start, and she’s airborne, breathing in the fresh air like the ambrosia it is.  The wind feels blissfully cool against her face, but she doesn’t allow herself to luxuriate in the feeling.  The ground is rising toward her all-too-quickly, and she needs to position her body to best absorb the impact.  If she can draw her shield arm in, the vibranium should take most of the impact, which should happen in five…four…three…

It never comes.  Instead of hitting solid pavement, she feels her body being jolted upward, the sudden shift making her stomach sink like she’s on a roller coaster.  There’s a hard presence around her waist, and a familiar humming noise buzzes through her ears.  A flash of scarlet confirms what she already knows; by some miracle, Tasha’s shown up and, once again, is sparing her the pain of impact. 

If she had a comlink, she’s fairly sure Tasha would be cursing her out like nobody’s business.  As it is, she’s left to imagine what’s going on behind the red and gold mask. 

Tasha sets them both down on top of a building a couple of streets over.  This isn’t the first time she’s managed an in-air rescue, and their smooth landing is a testament to just how good they’ve gotten at this.  It’s so effortless, in fact, that Tasha’s got her helmet half off before Steph finds her balance. 

“Jesus, Steph!” she screams, her voice already an octave higher than normal, well on her way into a tirade.  “You realize you’re _enhanced_ , not _invulnerable_ , right?!  You can’t just go jumping out of buildings like some bald eagle wannabe.  You are a _flightless bird,_ Steph.  You are a penguin.  Pen-guin,” she stresses, armored finger bumping against Steph’s chainmail with each syllable.  “And I, for one, refuse to scrape your star-spangled carcass off the streets of New York City.   I am a superhero, Stephanie, not a janitor, do you understand me?  And I’m not a taxi service, either, so you can get that through your thick cowl, and I’d appreciate it if you—” 

“Tasha!”  Steph interjects if only to keep the other woman from carrying on for another forty-five minutes. 

“What?!”  Tasha answers, equally loud and not at all calmed down. 

“You caught me,”  she says, staring down and Tasha as she tries to get the other woman to settle down.  “I’m okay.” 

“And isn’t that lucky for you?!

Steph reaches out with one gloved hand.  Her fingers are still filthy with ash, but Tasha’s face is already sweat-dampened from being inside of the helmet.  There’s also a not-so-subtle part of her that wants to leave a mark on Tasha, to prove that _she was there_ if only for a moment.  Her palm is wide enough that it covers the whole of Tasha’s cheek and part of her jawline, and for the hundredth time, Steph’s reminded of just how fragile Tasha is, how dangerous it is for her to keep flying like this.  Still, as evidenced by her most recent activities, Tasha’s far from helpless. 

And neither is she.  So it makes absolutely no sense to act the coward any longer. 

She keeps this thought firmly in mind as she grasps Tasha’s cheek and finally answers the woman’s question.  “Yes,” she says, as earnest as she knows how to be. 

Something in her tone must throw Tasha off because the woman stops ranting as her expression shifts from outraged to perplexed. 

“Well, great, glad we both agree on something,” she says, her voice drifting off into a mumble at the end. 

Hmm, apparently it is possible to shut the other woman up with the right incentive.  Steph keeps her hand along the other woman’s face, rubbing her thumb back and forth along the ridge of one cheekbone.  Tasha’s eyes widen notably but she doesn’t pull away, and Steph allows herself to smile.  That, out of everything, prompts Tasha to action.

“You wanna move your hand there, Cap?” she asks, but _she’s still not pulling away_.  “People might get the wrong impression.”  

Steph takes a deep breath which is in no way related to recent smoke inhalation.  She’s a genetically-enhanced super soldier who's been catapulted seventy years into the future and fought off invaders from outer space.  This is hardly the most terrifying thing she’s experienced, not even the most terrifying thing in the last month if she’s being honest.  Still, her heart’s pounding faster now then it was ten minutes ago when she was trapped in the middle of a burning building. 

She steps in closer, using her not-inconsiderable height to her advantage.  “Someone might get the right impression.”

A couple of months ago she wouldn’t have had any idea how to interpret the range of emotions that pass over Tasha’s face.  She’s still not quite sure — it’s probably never going to be possible to understand Tasha completely — but she thinks she can make out shock, confusion, anger, fear, and maybe, just maybe, hope.  With any luck, the jumble of reactions will work out in her favor or at least not completely against her.

Tasha finally finds her words.  “Christ, you don’t make anything easy, do you?”

“Easy’s not really my style.”

“And I thought _I_ was supposed to be the one who’s all about style.”

Steph grins ruefully, thinking back to their first interaction.  “I might have spoken too quickly.”

“And you’re sure you’re not speaking too quickly right now?”  Tasha looks up, and Steph thinks she can detect a tinge of vulnerability this time around, which gives her the nerve to move forward. 

“No…I mean, yes…I…I’m sure.” 

Tasha does smile at that, and she raises one gauntleted hand to cover Steph’s, where it’s still resting on her own cheek.  “So…” she asks, “does this mean I finally have a plus one for social obligations?”

“If you’d like one.”  Because the events might be bad, but the company might make everything worth it.  Tasha could make a lot of things worth it, even crash-landing in a new century.

“Well, I kind of already asked you.  A while ago, actually.” 

“Then this is me saying yes.”

Tasha giggles, which is…adorable.  Not that she’d dare say that out loud.  “Of course you are.  How could you resist?  I am known to be devilishly charming, after all, and it’s not as if —”

Steph bends down, shutting Tasha up in the way she’s been dying to for months now if she’s finally being honest with herself (and there’s really no reason for her not to be honest now).  Tasha’s lips are slightly chapped, they both smell faintly of smoke, and it’s over far too quickly.  Still, when they both straighten up, they’ve both got smiles on their faces.

“Well if that’s the way you want to go about things,” Tasha drawls, bending slightly to grab her helmet, “we’d better continue this discussion at home.”  Helmet on, she pulls Steph toward her, extending one booted foot. 

“Home,” Steph echoes, somewhat surprised to find that she actually means the word.  She circles her arm around Tasha’s waist, looking out over a skyline that’s changed but that she still loves desperately.  She pulls herself closer to the woman who’s grown from a nuisance to a friend and now holds the possibility of being something much dearer.  “Yeah, let’s go home.”

They step off the building in sync with one another, dipping for a moment under their combined weight.  And then they soar. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the fic, please do leave kudos and/or a comment. I treasure each and every one!!! 
> 
> If you want more of my Stony feelings, you can also come say hi on [Tumblr](http://kdm103020.tumblr.com/).  
> 
> Please also express your appreciation for jayjayverse's awesome artwork, which served as the catalyst for the entire piece. Their work is exquisite, and they have been tremendously patient with me as I've cobbled this fic together.  You can find their work [here.](https://jayjayverse.tumblr.com/post/174710947849/my-art-contribution-to-the-cap-ironman-reverse-big)


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